Best Laid Plans
by bluecellphone
Summary: Mylar Sylar has a plan to fix Mohinder but things don't go quite as desired. Smut in later chapters.
1. Chapter 1

**A****nd**** in a dream I'm a different me**

**With a perfect you**

**We fit perfectly**

**A****nd for o****nce in my life I feel complete**

**And I still want to ruin it**

**Afraid to look**

**A****s clear as day**

**T****his plan has long been underway**

Everything about this man, he loves.

The way Mohinder pads around his apartment in nothing but plaid pajama pants that hang too loosely off his hips.

The way Mohinder sips his tea, staring blankly into the cup in contemplation. Sylar hopes he is remembering their connection through the Chai.

Before leaving for work; the way he wraps his offensive scarf, not once but three times, around his skinny neck…as if it were a noose.

Sylar adores how Mohinder twirls his fingers around his curls and tugs on them when his mind is racing with genetic study.

He wants this, all of it, and just as much as he needs to watch Mohinder in the privacy of his own world, he craves the control. Mohinder should be doing these things for _him_.

Sylar has to chuckle under his breath when he brushes past Mohinder on the street, connecting their shoulders for the briefest of moments and Mohinder doesn't even look twice. The cover of illusion works wonders when stalking.

He follows Mohinder to a tiny, cramped café and sits across the room, fingering his coffee cup.

Staring at the dark man through eyes that are not his, flashing a kind grin when their gazes meet.

Mohinder's smile is shy and flirtacious and - though Sylar doesn't blame him because he's chosen a fairly attractive male visage - he fights the urge to rip Mohinder's head off for taking the bait of a stranger.

A few more traded smirks and he's up, moving towards Mohinder's table with a grace that the genetecist should have picked up on and remembered. That hurts.

Sylar offers a hand and a fake name.

Their conversation is pointless and painfully boring but he can hardly snub Mohinder's pleading for human contact. Its damn near impossible to disregard the pharamones rolling from chocolate skin.

Mohinder is far too lonely without him and, if all goes well, Sylar will fix that.

The plan is simple and he sticks to it despite the fire building in the pit of his stomach.

He lets the doctor lead him back to his apartment, nervous hands fumbling for the keys.

Sure, Sylar reminds himself, this façade is about getting his prey alone without causing a scene. But he can't lie to himself and say that fucking with Mohinder's emotions doesn't make him hard.

Sylar questions that maybe he didn't think this strategy through properly when Mohinder initiates the kiss before they are even two feet inside his home.

It's everything he's always wanted and so much more. He's kissing him because he wants to, because he needs to. He's touching Sylar's costume like it is the last thing his hungry fingers will ever caress. God, this is what Sylar has dreamed about so many nights; jacking off to Mohinder's doe eyes when, in his mind, the dark man drops to his knees and forgets about every fucking thing but Sylar.

This is too similar to his fantasy, and Sylar starts to lose his grip on the ability when Mohinder palms his engorged erection.

The power drops like a silk curtain and reveals heated, pale flesh and dark eyes that are lost in the heat of the moment.

His smooth skin has suddenly grown harsh stubble, and Mohinder must have felt the change when their chins rubbed together, Sylar thinks.

The kiss breaks and a gasp sounds as his victim stumbles backwards into the table.

Sylar's heart is racing – it wasn't supposed to happen like this but the mixture of fear, confusion, and embarrassment painting that debauched face is far too rewarding to pass up.

"You," comes a breathy hiss from pouting lips.

"Me?"

"Bastard!"

"Why aren't you running?"

Sylar grins to himself, mocking that both men know Mohinder is frozen to his spot. Terror and telekinesis are quite the handy paralyzing combination.

"What do you want Sylar?"

He shivers.

Sylar's eyes close almost as if on mechanism because his body is still thrumming from the excitement of it all.

Mohinder is the only person alive that has ever made him tremble by simply saying his name.

"You're not happy."

His eyes flutter open and observe confusion outweigh all other emotions on Mohinder's countenance.

"What?"

He advances.

"I've been watching you."

"You're sick."

Mohinder flinches away from Sylar's hand as fingertips ghost down his cheek.

"It's what I do. The way I see how things work."

"I'm not a fucking pocket watch!"

Sylar laughs and it's not anywhere near a composed chuckle. It is mad and trails off as fury creeps back across his nerve endings. Mohinder is far too unappreciative.

He leans in and nuzzles midnight hair, breathing the soapy scent and igniting his senses. Touch, taste, see, smell, hear. The doctor's heart is beating with a ferocity that could send it ripping through his chest at any moment.

"No, Mohinder. But you're lonely. Your life has become mundane. And tonight…you were going to fuck a stranger. You're broken and falling to pieces."

And then his prey says something that Sylar was not expecting. Even though he agrees, the truth of it all still singes the edges of his heart.

"You did this to me."

Sylar swallows and presses his lips to the shell of Mohinder's ear.

"Then let me fix you."

He's not a religious man by any means but for a moment, Sylar prays. He sends silent messages up towards the sky in case any sort of God more powerful than him is there to listen, and implores for Mohinder's acceptance. For a moment he believes things could be perfect.

The pain doesn't register with Sylar at first.

He staggers back when Mohinder's palms meet with his shoulders and shove with a vigor that Sylar was sure the doctor lacked. Yet, underestimating Mohinder had been his downfall in the past.

"Go to hell," Mohinder chokes out and blinks, stunned by his own audacity, and a single hot tear rolls down his cheek.

Those solemn words coupled with the dull throbbing in his gaunt shoulders falter Sylar momentarily.

"I'm offering you my help, Mohinder." Sylar's voice cracks and he curses internally. _Don't lose the __upper hand_, his mind warns.

"What makes you think that I want your help? I despise you!"

Sylar's entire body twitches and something inside his gut snaps like a brittle bone. This ungrateful, blind, stubborn, brilliant, broken, _fucking beautiful_ person is denying him.

Mohinder notices the change in Sylar's eyes as they narrow. His stomach flips and ties into a knot when the murderer's head tilts gently to the side. He realizes, for the first time, that Sylar's telekinetic hold is gone, and he retreats. To where, Mohinder is not sure. Slow, backwards steps are all that his body will allow, and a fleeting urge to run zaps his limbs when Sylar matches his strides.

"You loathe the way I make you _feel_. Which I find to be quite odd since those despicable feelings are the very ones you crave lately."

Sylar speaks through gritted teeth, his lean legs making up for the distance between them. His hand shoots out and latches onto Mohinder's bicep, pulling the quaking man into him.

"Stop," Mohinder whimpers as Sylar's arms wrap around his back and caress his hair. Sylar makes a mental note that his companion didn't refute what he'd just pointed out.

Mohinder struggles - futile jerks - but the strong arms only tighten their hold. He feels as though he's a feeble rabbit receiving an immobilizing squeeze from a deadly snake.

"Shhh," Sylar comforts, massaging soothing patterns into the back of his neck, trailing deft fingertips to the apex of his spine.

Mohinder stills when panic in his mind alerts him to struggled breathing. The more he fights, the less air he receives, and so he lays his chin unwillingly on Sylar's shoulder and waits to see what the murderer will do next. He half-expects to be flung onto his stomach and have his pants ripped off in fevered animalistic lust. The hardness abrading his thigh warns of this apprehension.

"Please," he whispers, chin digging painfully into a bony shoulder.

Sylar closes his eyes and pretends like the plead is a burning desire to be fixed by his nimble hands. He is a quick thinker and, though things hadn't gone exactly to plan, he could deal with these unexpected emotions.

His mind slips into the momentary fantasy that Mohinder is begging for his help.

"Whatever you want."

Mohinder's eyes scan the small expanse of apartment that immobility will allow, flicking nervously around his furniture. The scent of Sylar's cologne fills his nostrils and he closes his eyes, trying desperately to push it away. It smells too much like Zane…too much like the long car rides trapped in a small, stale space where the aroma was unavoidable, latching onto soft touches and stolen glances to establish painful memories.

He can't shun it now, closing his eyes does nothing, and those recollections stream back in affixed to the fragrance assaulting his head.

_Zane_, his mind screams, _but no, this is not Zane. This is a monster and he is holding me and touching me and_…

Sylar's fingers have come to a rest at the base of his skull and almost immediately Mohinder feels a dull ache creep from their burning warmth.

"Wait…what are you doing?" he pants, his head rapidly becoming heavy as it droops down even more into solid bone.

"You tell me, doctor."

Mohinder's eyelids are weighted closed and his limbs are tingling in a slow, bleary sensation.

Sleep-tugged thoughts pull at his vast knowledge of the human body and land on where Sylar is applying telekinesis.

"Cerebral concussion. You're…_my brain_," Mohinder whines, attempting one last time to jerk out of Sylar's hold with the realization that he is slipping into a makeshift slumber.

The arms loosen slightly around him but his struggles are merely for Sylar's enjoyment - no more powerful than a baby squirming in a blanket.

"Relax," Sylar soothes, nudging his nose against silky curls as the pressure inside Mohinder's skull heightens.

One final pinch strikes the bundle of sensitive nerves on his brain stem.

Like someone flicking a light switch Mohinder slumps, comatose, into the waiting arms of a domineering murderer.

----------------------------------------

Next chapter up as soon as plot bunnies will allow!

Song quote at the beginning: "Even Deeper" by Nine Inch Nails


	2. Chapter 2

**I woke up today**

**T****o**** find myself in the other place**

**It seems everything I've heard**

**Just might be true**

**A****nd you**** know me**

**Well you think you do**

A buzzing, ringing, growing louder in his ears.

His eyes won't open and his head pounds relentlessly.

Mohinder feels a warmth slide across his cheek and he flinches, but the recoil only amplifies the hammering in his skull.

"Don't try to move."

The voice is too brash as it echoes against the throb, but he stills, afraid of the pain assaulting his head.

He feels sick almost instantly, a bitter itch rising in his throat and a tepid sensation filling his dry mouth. His body lurches.

"Wonderful, Mohinder. Disgusting."

Heat on his chest with a shift in whatever he is resting on and Mohinder lulls back to sleep as obscurity drapes his senses.

* * *

"Finally awake?" 

Mohinder takes a sharp breath and winces with Sylar's resonant voice.

His eyes flutter open in time for his equilibrium to stabilize and witness two Sylar's vibrate into one. A pale, concerned face is the focus point once they do so.

He swallows hard, parched mouth giving no aid to raw sensitivity.

Mohinder is startled when a cool glass tips against his chapped lips.

"I'm sure your throat hurts."

He nods, attempting to sit up, but firm fingers meet a weak chest and force him back down.

An all-too steady hand pours the water in a delicate trickle and the remnant scorch soothes instantly. The cup pulls away before he can ask for more.

"You threw up on me, Mohinder."

"What did you think would happen by toying with my brain stem?" His voice is a raspy whimper; he wishes it manifested confidence, but dread and bewilderment are suppressing that conviction.

Sylar shoots him a displeased look before a harsh rattling noise enters Mohinder's thoughts, forcing him to press a palm to his head.

He barely has time to react before feeling two foreign objects shoved intrusively between his lips tailed promptly by more cool water.

"Those will help," Sylar growls as Mohinder swallows and coughs through the startle.

"What did you just give me?"

"Don't you trust me, Mohinder?"

"Are you joking? You kidnapped me!"

Sylar leans forward, hands on either side of the doctor, quirking his head as his eyes jut around Mohinder's dark face.

"It's not kidnapping when the person belongs to you."

_He's __delusional_, Mohinder realizes with a pang of fear. _How do you reason with someone like this?_

"You can't…own another human being, Sylar. It goes against all laws of nature and ethics," Mohinder states, shifting as much as the looming figure will allow.

A hand wanders up to fondle rogue curls as Sylar continues with a reflective look in his eyes.

"A year ago your father told me I couldn't move objects with my mind. I proved him wrong. Anything is possible, Mohinder."

He is about to respond, opening his mouth to form an objection when a weight drops on his mind like a boulder.

Sylar studies the detached look in dark eyes as they shift groggily to the side in medicated euphoria.

"What's the matter?" He asks the doctor with mock-concern. He knows very well what's wrong.

"You drugged me."

Mohinder's teeth are gritted, jaw clenched, when his head falls back onto the pillow.

"You need more rest," Sylar quips, matter-of-factly.

A gentle stroking of knuckles against his cheek comforts him as undesirable sleep buries Mohinder alive for the final time.

* * *

He wakes several hours later feeling more well-rested than he has in months. 

Headache gone and seemingly alone, Mohinder is up in a flash to examine his foreign prison.

It seems nice enough at first glance around the room; homely with a flower-print love seat in the corner and various scenic paintings hung on the log walls.

He peaks into a cracked door and catches the edge of a sink. At least there is a bathroom.

Mohinder then hurries to the window, nearly tripping on too-long pajama pants. He takes a moment to examine his oversized tee shirt, noting this outfit must be Sylar's, before pulling back the dusty mauve curtain.

Woods, nothing but snow and woods as far as he can see. Even if he wanted to run, how deep would he get into the dark forest before he had to turn back?

He unlocks and tugs on the window pane out of curiosity and finds it, unsurprisingly, stuck shut. Shaky fingers tap lightly on the glass as he wonders how easy it would be to break it and escape.

"Going somewhere?"

Mohinder spins to see Sylar standing in the doorway, leaning casually, eyes narrowed and mouth painted with an amused smirk.

"I thought I heard you up." Sylar steps into the room and closes the door behind him.

"Where are we?"

"Somewhere very special to me." He strides forward. "My family used to come here when I was younger. Now I'm sharing it with you."

"I'm honored," Mohinder retorts sarcastically, trying to hold his ground as Sylar closes the distance between them.

"You should be. You _will_ be."

The malevolent growl coming from curled lips is enough to disable Mohinder's thoughts.

No time to react. Abrupt and harsh like everything else Sylar does.

Mohinder is grabbed by his arm and drug painfully into the bathroom, flesh screaming in agony where Sylar's grip holds tight.

"What are you doing?!"

"Cleaning you."

Sylar takes too much joy in the struggle. He chuckles coldly at Mohinder's futile attempts to wiggle away while his clothing is stripped off.

The doctor doesn't relent until he is shoved under the steaming water and feels Sylar's body slip in behind him.

His wrists are captured, palms brought up to the shower wall and planted firmly by telekinesis.

He hangs his head directly under the persistent moisture and snivels through stretched, sopping curls.

_This isn't right, how did it happen? I have work to do. Did he even lock my apartment_? Mohinder's thoughts raced through the stress of the situation. _He can't keep me __here;__ someone will come looking for me. __Word of my __disappearance__ will get to Peter Petrelli and-_

Sylar's bony fingers wrap around his hips and urge him forwards a few inches.

"Don't hog all the water, Mohinder."

He hears Sylar hum appreciatively behind him as the water bounces off pale skin, swirling down the drain at two pairs of night and day feet.

Mohinder is now very aware of a hardness rubbing into his backside.

He stifles the impulse to throw up because, much to his dismay, his body is reacting to the sensation with welcoming urgency.

A sigh of relief shudders through him when Sylar's soapy fingers attack his dark locks. Maybe he _i__s_ just going to be cleaned.

"You know, I thought you of all people would appreciate what I'm trying to do…being Indian and all."

Sylar grins as he massages shampoo into Mohinder's scalp and pauses briefly to inhale the wild apple scent.

"What?" It's all Mohinder can think to say. He's quickly losing himself in the sensual touches.

"Soul cleansing, Mohinder. Think of this as an opportunity to start fresh."

Sylar prods him back under the shower head to rinse the suds from his curls. The unmistakable grind into his ass forces a reply from Mohinder to conceal his moan.

"Starting fresh usually doesn't involve drugging," Mohinder sputters through the rivers of soapy water flowing down his face.

He gasps when gentle hands begin vigorously rubbing a bar of soap across all available skin.

"I did some reading on your culture, Mohinder," Sylar forces through clenched teeth, ignoring the doctor's sarcasm. His movements pause and he presses his lips to Mohinder's shoulder, murmuring against the slick flesh. "Just couldn't stop thinking about you. Had to pass the time somehow."

Pale hands travel down a wet chest, fingers dipping into the concave of Mohinder's belly button.

"And?" Mohinder chokes on his own word when the appendages ghost over his erection.

"And…I grew quite fond of one of your Gods. Shiva is his name, I believe."

He swallows hard as the fingers stroke back and forth delicately, the groin behind him starting to move in a rousing manner.

"Destroyer," Mohinder pants.

The murderer smirks against the back of his neck before squeezing the throbbing length. He moans as Mohinder bucks backwards into his own erection.

"That's right. The destroyer of imperfections…ignorance…impurities."

He quickens the pace of his hand, leaning deeper into Mohinder to create more friction.

_Shiva, who __shatters__ and then restores_, Mohinder recalls from his indisputable knowledge of his own religion. _But this God leaves nothing in __its__ wake. No purity is spared._

"You forgot relationships and attachments, good things in life-oh God! Please stop!"

Mohinder throws his head back against the pallid shoulder, desperate to hold onto his sanity when Sylar's teeth dig into his neck.

Fingers slip without warning inside of him, and he calls out from the intense pain.

"No, Mohinder. Can't stop now. I'm… breaking and fixing."

He gasps at the lean, mocha body jerking against his front, challenging its own reactions.

Sylar chews on his lip fighting the desire to force Mohinder onto his knees.

_He thinks he__ can compare himself to Shiva? He's a murdering, self-involved sociopath!_

"You're not a God," Mohinder hisses, eyes fluttering closed when Sylar thumbs the head of his erection.

The water flicks off by an unseen force as the shower curtain flies back, and Mohinder regrets his last statement.

It isn't until he is flung from the tub and his stomach meets the edge of the sink that he fully laments.

His head smacks against the wall with brutal momentum, dazing him momentarily.

Before the sting in his cranium can subside, Sylar is behind him again, thrusting in and bruising more harshly.

Both men grunt, though for entirely different reasons, and Mohinder's hands grasp blindly at the smooth faucet as his head slumps into the sink.

Sylar pounds in relentlessly ignoring the hoarse cries jarring from his captive, and fists a handful of damp curls.

Too much, too fast.

Mohinder winces as his head is snapped back and he's forced to meet Sylar's gaze in the mirror.

"I'm _your_ God," Sylar snarls. "The sooner you accept the better."

When Sylar lets go, hot tears are streaming down Mohinder's face and mixing with ruby blood from the cut on his forehead. The white porcelain drives against his stomach and Mohinder can do nothing but fret over the damage being done underneath his skin.

He feels telekinetic fingers working his length again while Sylar's blunt nails rake marks into the flesh of his hips.

Crimson red swirling down the white drain below him; he feels sick.

"Stop!" he cries out. Sylar only grinds harder.

Trying to detach himself from the ripping, burning, aching bluntness of the situation, Mohinder welds his eyes shut and latches onto the sink.

As Sylar's fingers rip into the caramel flesh, eyes sparkling at the bright red treasure buried underneath, his plan evolves into something more unexpected.

The pieces come together, and he decides fate has finally worked its charm. It's so simple; Sylar wonders why he hadn't thought of it before.

Close to the edge, he thrusts into Mohinder deeper, angling, twisting the doctor's head and bending down to bite at dark lips.

_Inflict as much physical damage as possible_, Sylar thinks.

He aims for the sweet-spot inside of Mohinder, jabbing against a tender prostate in the hopes of unraveling the doctor entirely. It works, he knows, when a low whine escapes cultured lips and Mohinder's knuckles tense so profoundly they turn white.

With a telekinetic grip around his hardness Mohinder releases, groaning through the unwanted pleasure that thrums in time with his heartbeat.

Sylar latches onto chocolate shoulders and squeezes with the purpose of leaving bruises, his seed spilling out into the collapsed, groaning body below him.

Planting a kiss on Mohinder's heaving back, he pulls away and watches the doctor crumble to the floor.

Mohinder can't meet Sylar's eyes. He can hardly breathe. He curls into himself and touches the wound on is head lightly.

"That looks like it hurts," Sylar observes, wiping himself clean with a towel and then slipping back into his clothing. He crouches down beside Mohinder with a washcloth, only to find the man flinch into an even tighter ball.

"Fuck you."

He frowns down at Mohinder's trembling body and shakes his head lightly.

_So weak. Fragile. I'll make you strong. Nothing is stronger than __love.__ You__ will love me soon._

The plan is crystal clear now.

"Get up," he commands, reaching out and pulling Mohinder to his feet, guiding him on shaky limbs back to the bed.

Mohinder isn't fighting back anymore.

He is holding onto Sylar, afraid of falling. A small taste of what is to come, Sylar thinks. A morsel that leaves his mouth watering and wanting more.

He slides a clean pair of boxers over bruised, bleeding mocha hips and retrieves a first aid kit from the bathroom.

When Sylar returns, Mohinder is staring blankly out the window.

Cleaning Mohinder's wounds is easier than expected; the doctor sits still, flinching away only at the burn of chemicals, not at Sylar's hand.

"I'm sorry."

Mohinder snaps out of his shock.

"No you're not. You're sadistic! If that's all you wanted, you should have just taken it at my apartment!"

Sylar chuckles darkly.

"No, Mohinder. Not sorry for that. For what I have to do."

He watches the murderer retrieve thick rope from under the bed. The look of absolute bewilderment on Mohinder's face is one that Sylar stores away forever with his eidetic memory.

Mohinder looks from the restraints to Sylar and swallows with conviction.

"No!"

"Yes. I'm going out and I can't have you running away. Not after we've made so much…progress."

He tries to scoot back into a defensive position but winces as pain shoots through all the wounds and bruises peppering his body.

_I__s it worth fighting and injuring __myself even more? _Mohinder wonders.

"Lay down," Sylar says, uncoiling the rope and using telekinesis to slice it into four pieces.

Swallowing his pride and the anger bubbling up from the pit of his stomach, Mohinder obeys.

He glares at Sylar who returns the compliance with an appreciative nod.

It's painful to lay like this; arms and legs stretched out to the bedposts, placing strain on his already tender joints. The sheets chafe against cuts.

Mohinder's bottom hurts most of all. He's bewildered at how a previously comfortable bed meets his throbbing backside with relentless hardness.

Sylar ties the ropes firmly, leaning down to kiss the small wound on his captive's forehead when all limbs are secure. Dark eyes refuse to meet his when Sylar's fingers skim admiringly over battered flesh.

"Do I need to find tape for your mouth?"

Mohinder's eyes flash, failing to mask his fear of being bound _and_ gagged.

"No."

"Good. Save your pretty voice, there's nobody around for miles."

There is a pause, a look of almost regret plaguing Sylar's face before he leans down and kisses Mohinder's bruised lips, sliding his tongue in to taste.

This motionless form is not what Sylar wants. Mohinder doesn't kiss back, but he doesn't try to move away. The final phase of his plan is now more desired than ever.

"I'll be back later." Sylar's voice is quiet as he stands and rushes to the door. Shiva, he thinks, will rebuild everything.

* * *

Okay so I finally know how I'm going to end this! Sorry this chapter is so long. 

Song lyrics at the beginning: "Even Deeper" by Nine Inch Nails.


	3. Chapter 3

**I'm okay**

**I'm on track**

**On my way**

**And I can't turn back**

**I stayed**

**On this track**

**Gone too far**

**A****nd I can't come back**

How did things get like this?

Mohinder was struggling, yes, but doesn't everyone struggle from time to time?

He was lonely. The man in the coffee shop had the most sincere eyes and – no, it was Sylar.

It's always Sylar flashing fake Zane smiles and offering fake Zane touches.

But the loneliness he'd suffered the past few months was nothing compared to what he is feeling now.

Staring up at the spider web-laced ceiling of Sylar's family cabin, Mohinder is giving up.

He had folded weeks before but he can't bring himself to admit to that. Not as he's lying here, accepting his fate. Whatever Sylar wants to do to him will happen. Not even the most caring empath on earth can stop that.

Sylar is a God and for all Mohinder knows, he is Shiva reincarnate.

He balls his fists and fights the urge to scream. The murderer had invaded every part of his life, right down to religion.

Being devout was hard enough with everything that had happened in the past year. Now he is being forced to worship a monster that his father swore didn't exist when he was a child. If only Chandra could see him now.

What would he think? Mohinder pictures his father standing at the foot of the bed he is so serenely tied to, examining the bruises and cuts and helplessness with a clinical eye.

"You've failed me," he says. "You've failed yourself. Giving up does nothing for the soul, Mohinder."

"How can I be expected to fight someone so blatantly stronger than me?" he asks the image of a man who's not really there. But it doesn't answer.

Mohinder has no response to his own question, and so his imagined father stares blankly down at him before fading into musky cabin air.

He sighs before tugging frustrated a few times on the ropes.

He can't fight Sylar. At this point he _needs_ Sylar, and it's a terrible thing to admit.

Mohinder chews his bruised lip until teeth scrape over a scab and he flinches.

It's terrifying to feel this helpless. To want a man that just took something so personal from him.

He closes his eyes and, for the first time since he woke up here, prays that Sylar returns to take care of him.

_He will_.

* * *

Mohinder picks his head up as the bedroom door creaks open. 

He watches Sylar come through and march into the bathroom.

The man returns a few moments later, wiping bright red blood from his pale hands onto a shock white towel.

It's the familiar sickness rising in Mohinder's throat. The recurring look of disgust on his face that prompts Sylar to examine his own stained fingers.

"Too much for you? You'll need to get used to it."

_I can't believe I was begging for this man an hour ago_, Mohinder's mind moans. _He's psychotic_.

"Who did you kill?" he asks Sylar with a surplus of urgency to accompany his chasing thoughts.

_Please__ not Molly or Matt or Peter or…_

Sylar smiles and Mohinder thinks he's never wanted to throw a punch more in his life.

His eyes transfix on Sylar's tainted flesh as the murderer sits heedlessly on the bed.

That could be the blood of someone he loves, teasing his nose with coppery scent.

He tries not gag when reddened fingers trace over goose bumps marking the naked skin of his chest.

"I should have covered you up before I left."

"Who?!" Mohinder whimpers, tears pooling in his eyes when images of his dead family stream into his thoughts.

Sylar disregards him.

Instead, he moves to untie chaffing wrists and ankles, something Mohinder is grateful for when the ache in his joints is finally relieved.

Sylar is up and sorting through the dresser while the doctor massages his own hurt away with shaky fingers.

_Do what he wants as __quickly__ as he wants and he will tell you._

He takes the offered sweat pants and tee shirt, sliding in with the help of Sylar's deft hands.

Warm now but still plagued by throbbing muscles, Mohinder leans back against the headboard and wipes a fallen tear from his cheek.

"Memories."

The murderer breaks the silence with stifled anticipation.

"What?"

"Shiva. He takes away memories so that you can move on without inhibitions. Without the past holding you back."

By now Mohinder has filed through each special person he knows, placing them on the fore of his mind to pluck at Sylar's subtle hints. It doesn't take him long to land on a unique man that had stolen parts of his mind in the past. He is embarrassed to be more than relieved that is not someone he cares deeply for.

"Haitian."

Sylar nods, elating over Mohinder's sharpness, and waits for the next realization.

He is surprised to see the stun pop across the doctor's face later than it should have.

"You…you can't. I'll stay here with you. You don't need to-"

Pleading words are cut off by a ruby-stained finger against his lips and Mohinder can't help but think about the smell of the Haitian's death invading his nostrils; on his mouth.

But he can't move. The shock of what Sylar intends to do has him staring in bewilderment into cold, sparkling brown eyes. Scheming in their strategy and excited to execute the final task.

He moves to speak again when the hand falls away.

"Please. I want to change, I want your help. Don't take them."

The sincerity and trepidation twisting dark features is enough to pause Sylar and have him question his own plan.

He thinks for a moment about keeping Mohinder in this state.

But betrayal from the past would be far too daunting and he fears Mohinder will never fully accept him into his life. This has to be done.

"I'm sorry, Mohinder," Sylar says as he tucks all evidence of foul play away. Rope is slid under the bed for now, bloodied bandages and clothing nudged out of sight.

"Sylar."

He swoops in to capture defiant, broken lips for one last time, hand traveling up Mohinder's spine to tangle in silky curls smelling of wild apples.

Mohinder kisses back.

If not out of love, then out of a final plea that he can and _will_ change if Sylar lets him.

The kiss is long and intense, but gentle, and Sylar's heart flutters when Mohinder fists the front of his shirt.

This most _certainly_ wasn't the original plan. He'd come so far in just a couple days, and now there was no turning back.

The things he has done to Mohinder can not be reversed by anything besides the power he'd just hunted down and acquired.

Sylar massages his fingers into the base of the doctor's skull, an action similar to when this all started in Mohinder's apartment. Except this time, his emotions are too indecipherable; too many at once.

Sorrow, regret, excitement, anticipation, fear. In his mind, the best of intentions back up his actions. That is the mantra playing in his psyche that keeps the plan moving forward.

He feels hot tears on his cheeks. His or Mohinder's, he can't decide. His own vision is blurred and that's enough to set the potent connection between them as Mohinder breathes heavily into his mouth, forehead pressed to forehead.

Sylar swallows hard at the whisper that gasps from dark lips and bounces into his mouth.

"_Please_."

He instantly regrets not having said goodbye as Mohinder moans and goes limp in his arms.

* * *

"A what?" 

"Car accident."

"And I…"

Mohinder's bruised fingers trail over the cut on his forehead.

"You were in a coma for several days. I'm lucky to have you back."

"You and I are…"

Sylar drops his head and smiles.

"Together seems like a fitting word."

_I know this man.__ He's incredibly attractive and something feels familiar.__ I __must__ know him_, Mohinder thinks, staring into the eyes of a perfect stranger yet feeling oddly at peace and safe with his presence.

"I don't remember coming here." His brow furrows as he looks around the quaintly decorated room.

"Short term memory loss…the doctors said it's only temporary. The long-term memory loss, they fear, may be permanent."

He watches Mohinder's face as the internal struggle to remember overpowers him.

"This is all so…you'll have to forgive me, I'm a bit overwhelmed."

"Completely understandable. I was told to take you somewhere quiet. Somewhere you can rest." Sylar's eyes water as Mohinder's own fill with salty tears. It's painful to watch, and even more painful to play along.

"Thank you," Mohinder offers, completely lost as to what to say next.

_Is it really going to be this easy?_ Sylar marvels.

He traces a bruise on a dark wrist, gauging the doctor's reaction to such an intimate touch.

Mohinder doesn't flinch. He smiles.

"Don't worry. I'm going to take good care of you. You'll remember soon, I promise."

He won't, Sylar knows. But the new Mohinder can hope, can't he? It is, after all, that very same passionate optimism that attracted him to the geneticist in the first place.

Sylar is stunned in the best way possible when Mohinder takes his hand. The action is needy and wanting and he feels ready to explode because everything he's sought after is right _here_.

"My name is Gabriel, by the way."

Shy smiles are traded.

"Gabriel. Nice to meet you. My name is Mohinder."

He reaches up to touch his new lover's jaw.

"I know. You're very special to me, Mohinder. And I'm going to fix you."

* * *

WOAH okay. I hope you guys like this! I'm thinking about doing MORE…if my mind can take it. Would you guys like more about confused!mohinder and Sylar? Maybe confused!mohinder starts to catch on and remember things…who knows? 

Song at the beginning: "Even Deeper" by Nine Inch Nails.

It truly was my inspiration for this ENTIRE fic!


	4. Chapter 4

**Turn me inside out and upside down**

**And try to see things my way**

**Turn a new page, tear the old one out**

**And I'll try to see things your way**

For a short while, everything was perfect.

Mohinder would finish his meals with a constant scrunched, confused look on his face. Sylar would kiss it away, helping him forget what he was trying to remember.

Sex was lazy and relaxed. It took everything within Sylar not to ravage Mohinder's beautiful body. Not to rip it apart with his teeth, watching purple bruises blossom over golden skin. Not to dig deeply into caverns of flesh for ruby, pumping blood that signifies everything worth living for.

Sylar forces himself to cherish each controlled moment with Mohinder.

He presses his lips to fluttering eyelids, grinning against Mohinder's forehead when the amnesiac laughs at the contact. His deft fingers ghost over Mohinder's torso and feel the curves of a taut stomach. They skim down goose bumped hips while his mouth sucks and licks at a vibrating throat. Long, lean legs entangle in Sylar's own and his toes curl as that accented voice purrs out utterances of adoration.

Simple, loving foreplay that Sylar never thought he'd enjoy so much.

Mohinder welcomes what he is told are familiar touches with an open, stark mind.

And then, Sylar takes him.

Slow, careful drives into a willing body that quakes at his every touch.

He buries himself inside Mohinder, aching and burning with the painfully steady friction.

His fingers clench, teeth grit, muscles tense; body screaming at him to push harder. And then he relaxes.

He could do it, Sylar knows. He could rape Mohinder into oblivion and then simply delete the memories.

Staring down into sex-drunk eyes and feeling Mohinder's fingers carding through the hair on the back of his head, Sylar can't.

The moment is too pure for that.

He rocks his hips gently, kissing dark lips that are stuck agape and panting.

"More," Mohinder pleads, a tear squeezing from his eye.

_This is almost too perfect._

Sylar pushes a little harder; slides into Mohinder's tight body all the way to the hilt and pauses when Mohinder lets out a tiny hiss.

_Too much. _

He eases back, retreating, and Mohinder whimpers at the loss.

_Damnit, make up your mind._

"Are you alright?"

Mohinder answers him by slicking his tongue along the roof of Sylar's mouth and breathes a word that shows Sylar Mohinder has always wanted this. Deep down, he has.

"Harder."

Sylar steadies himself on a shaking arm, gripping Mohinder's hip with his free hand. His fingernails dig in subconsciously, leaving marks.

He thrusts in once, swift and torturous, pausing to see the pain contort Mohinder's gorgeous face.

Sylar feels legs dig into his lower back, a silent craving for more.

"This," Mohinder breathes out against the sweaty flesh of Sylar's neck."I remember this."

"You should."

Sylar clenches his jaw and jolts into Mohinder so roughly that the headboard of the bed slams against the wall.

A guttural moan fills his ears.

He _wants_ Mohinder to remember; he wants Mohinder to _feel_ and to associate these reminiscences with him.

But he can't be too rough. If he gives Mohinder everything, memories will flood back and he will have to take it all away again.

Mohinder arcs up into him and mumbles a slew of pleads.

"More, oh please Gabriel more."

"I can't."

"Why?"

"Don't want to hurt you."

Sylar can barely believe the words escaping his own mouth, because he does. He yearns to inflict pain.

There is a pause.

Mohinder's eyes flit around Sylar's face, a look of recollection striking his features.

Sylar's heart clenches, afraid that he's remembered something too important.

Mohinder leans up and ghosts mocha lips against pink ones.

"I know you used to," he exhales into Sylar's mouth. "Please. It's okay, I want it."

Sylar is suddenly overwhelmed. His skin feels as though it has ignited in flames and a surge of electricity pumps to his fingers and toes.

_Control it or you start all over. _

He almost does; Sylar is about to pull out when Mohinder jerks downwards and impales himself fully.

It is the most exquisite thing that has ever attacked each of Sylar's senses.

His mind shuts down and his body takes over.

With a growl that startles Mohinder, Sylar begins pounding into him in a breakneck rhythm; desperate for release.

Mohinder swears now, lost in his own world of pleasure, losing control of his tongue when it slithers up Sylar's jaw, leaving cuss words in its wake.

His erection is trapped between their stomachs, the friction of Sylar's frantic movements pumping him into a groaning, arching, sweating mess.

He comes just before Sylar, curling into the lean form and seizing as his orgasm spurts through him in waves. It feels like the first time; the best time, and every part of him throbs in raw bliss.

Sylar sobs when release overtakes his body.  
_  
Why doesn't this feel right?_

He rocks slower into Mohinder's hips, hot tears leaking from his eyes and trickling into dark curls.

When the last tingling burst subsides, Sylar collapses onto Mohinder's chest and hugs him tightly; possessively.

"What's wrong?"

Mohinder brings a hand to Sylar's face and wipes the wet salt away, concerned.

Vigilance from the man he is destroying is the last thing Sylar's conscience needs.

"Forgive me," he whispers.

Mohinder smiles gently and kisses his temple.

"I wanted you to."

"No, you didn't. You thought you did...but you didn't."

"Gabriel, what are you talking about?"

That name, coming from Mohinder's lips. It's wrong and it makes him feel like Gabriel Gray. Weak, useless, and plain.

Sylar lets out a shaky breath and swallows, nuzzling deeper against the warm chest.

"Never mind."

Mohinder doesn't press. Thoughts far too confusing and shadowy occupy his own head - he worries about making them worse.

There is silence.

Sylar listens to the steady, calm beat of Mohinder's heart. It's a refreshing change from the usual panicked fear thrumming through his veins.

He feels fingers stroking his back and Sylar shivers. His stomach twists into knots.

_Perfect. Too perfect. But peculiar - it doesn't feel right. He's not supposed to love me this much...nobody is._

Sylar hears Mohinder's breath hitch and catches a flutter in his heart.

He prepares for an inevitable memory, all-too common after intimacies like this.

"Gabriel?"

He sighs.

"Yeah?"

"Who is Zane?"

Sylar panics for a moment, searching his mind for a lie.

He clears his throat.

"Zane? I think...an old friend of yours."

Mohinder is quiet but Sylar can practically hear his mind racing.

These are the things he used to do with Mohinder as Zane Taylor, and even then it felt wrong when his motives were simple.

"Old friend?"

"Mhmm." Sylar is trying his best to sound casual. "Probably from New York. You've talked about him a few times in the past."

"Oh."

Guilt strikes Sylar's gut by the defeated tone in Mohinder's reply.

"I don't think he was too important."

_God, extremely important._

"He must've been if I'm remembering him," Mohinder says quietly, almost as if speaking to just himself. He continues with a contemplative edge to his words that Sylar doesn't like.

"Strange that having sex with you would bring up his name in my mind."

Sylar closes his eyes.

"Very strange."

"Maybe...maybe he and I were more than just friends?"

Mohinder sounds scared now, like he's afraid of making Sylar angry.

"Could be. But you and I have been together for quite a while, Mohinder. If you did have a thing with this Zane, it probably doesn't mean much anymore."

_It means so much._

Mohinder nods, but he can't buy Sylar's explanation. How can something that intimate not mean anything?

He falls asleep under Sylar with an odd itch at the back of his mind, telling him to keep asking questions.

This is how it happens each time they make love. Mohinder clings repeatedly to bizarre memories - a name, a taste, a sound...objects that don't make sense to him.

Sylar is amazed at how relentless the reminders are even though he wipes Mohinder's memory each night.

He fucks Mohinder evening after evening, and the ever-persistent scientist has something new pop up on the fore of his mind as soon as they're done. 

Maps, chai tea, research, Peter Petrelli, the Company, viruses...and on the last particularly memorable occasion, a man named Sylar.

Mohinder was closer to the truth than he thought.

Along with the memory of the name 'Sylar' came a sudden overwhelming fear deep inside that Mohinder couldn't suppress.

He latched onto Sylar, crying, begging for an answer. Pleading for knowledge.

For once, Sylar supplied the truth.

"He's the man who murdered your father."

And then, he realizes, Mohinder has forgotten about that too.

Disbelief wracks Mohinder's shuddering body and Sylar has to tell the entire story - skipping the parts about abilities, of course - and hold Mohinder until the sobs cease and wet, red eyes close in exhausted sleep.

That night changed everything.

That night Sylar felt more remorse than ever when emptying Mohinder's mind.

The next morning, Mohinder is a completely different person.

* * *

Whew, this is getting angsty!! Mo could very well fight back soon! You never know...thanks to everyone who has been reading this story!!! 


	5. Chapter 5

**You made it all so mad**

**Love or control gone bad**

**I****t seems to me you don't play fa****ir**

**I've come to know your kind**

**Through innocence then blind**

**B****elieved in something that was never there...**

"Calm down, Mohinder."

"No! Answer me! Tell me why I can't go into town with you. Tell me why I can't ever go out by myself!"

Sylar is standing in front of the door to their homely cabin, guarding against an enraged man who has tried several times to push him out of the way.

He'd woken up to a nonstop slew of questions.

It is clear to him now that Mohinder is remembering more and more; piecing things together and beginning to wonder like any natural scientist would.

Sylar's frustration can only be concealed by gritted teeth. He refuses to use his abilities on Mohinder out of fear of startling his lover.

So here they stand, resorting to physical struggles and verbal abuse.

"I've told you before, I don't want to trouble you with nonsense things like shopping for food. Especially with all the headaches you've been having lately."

"But I _want_ to go out! Fresh air would do me some good."

Mohinder advances on him again, pushing at Sylar's arm to reach the door.

Sylar shoves him back, a little too roughly, and Mohinder gasps in surprise.

"If you want to go for a walk with me, I have no problem with that." His tone is low and dangerous, clearly effecting Mohinder's confidence.

"I want to be alone."

"Then go busy yourself in the study."

"No, I want to be alone _outside_."

Sylar sighs frustrated, carding his fingers through his hair. The gaze he sets upon Mohinder from beneath a lowered brow is both intimidating and calculating.

He feels his control over everything he's worked so hard for decaying quickly.

_How is__ it all slipping away?_

_How is__ Mohinder possibly remembering this much?_

Sylar realizes with a ping in his gut that he can never truly change Mohinder Suresh. No amount of memory sweeping or mental and physical abuse can reshape the doctor's defiant and inquisitive DNA. Even he knows that something that deep; something stitched into the very lining of a person's soul; can never be altered.

He has to come up with another plan because there is no possible way he can last through this one.

But he's so tired of tying Mohinder up; of struggling along with him and wincing in empathy at cuts and bruises. At one point in his life he adored the mewling cries of pain and the staining red blood.

Now Sylar is weary of cleaning him up and bandaging wounds to comfort a man spitting hate and confusion at him. It is time, energy, and tender touching that he'd much rather spend on a willing, loving Mohinder.

Sylar's head aches along with that Haitianed brain in their constant battle of wills.

Rubbing a throbbing temple and then pinching the bridge of his nose, Sylar reaches for Mohinder's lightweight beige jacket hanging dusty on their coat rack.

He tosses it at Mohinder who catches it in fumbling stun.

"Just be careful."

_Of what? There's nobody around for miles. Be careful of me?_

"Of course," Mohinder replies with a thanking smile as he slides into an old, familiar coat.

Sylar folds his arms and steps aside, never breaking eye contact as the man shuffles through a half-cracked door.

He doesn't need Mohinder to be careful; Sylar is always there watching and protecting.

Waiting a few minutes to give Mohinder a head start, he grabs his own jacket off the rack and slips it over broad shoulders, gliding into the cool spring air.

* * *

Sylar follows noiselessly. 

His feet hover not an inch off the frozen ground, ghosting over branches and melting snow that would otherwise crunch and alert Mohinder.

Hanging back several yards, Sylar is wholly enthralled by his lover, his captive, his savior.

Mohinder walks through the woods, eyes to the sky to study an intricate pattern of tree tops and sparkling sun poking through leaves.

Sylar hears the man's deep, lung-filled breaths of crisp air. Mohinder is savoring.

He stops when Mohinder stops.

Gripping the skinny trunk of a dying tree, Sylar narrows his eyes and watches Mohinder crouch beside a Bluebell that has sprung to life from thawing winter frost.

Long, careful fingers touch the pedals before trailing down to brush away the remaining snow around its stem and give the courageous flower more room to breathe. More room to grow.

Sylar thinks back to what his mother used to say about the seasons.

She would make it a point it to shoo a young Gabriel Gray out the door of their tiny house.

_"Winter is nothing but death, Gabriel. Spring will rejuvenate your __youthful__ soul,"_ she would say.

He would explore outside, much like Mohinder is now, poking and prodding at the life of nature and feeling warmer with each step.

Mohinder starts moving again and Sylar is pulled, as if on a tether.

Sylar starts to feel anxious at the symbolism of the moment.

_I am winter. I am death. I have been blanketing Mohinder with my own greed. _

He feels tears pricking painfully in his eyes and wipes them away, blaming the brisk air.

Glancing back, their cabin is no longer in sight. Everything within Sylar wants to run back and lock himself in their room. He needs to think.

But he can't leave Mohinder now. What if he gets lost? Sylar has to stay behind him and make sure he doesn't go too far into the sea of trees.

Mohinder seems to spot something to his right and pauses, bending down to pick up a rock before veering off.

He leads Sylar to a tiny pond half frozen with quickly melting ice.

Sylar's breath is shaky now; body trembling in the hammering guilt of what he has been doing to Mohinder.

Mohinder tosses the rock into the pond and shoves his hands in khaki pockets.

Sylar creeps closer, his coat sleeve catching on an outstretched twig and snapping loudly.

He anticipates Mohinder's spin and lowers himself to the ground with a crunch before his lover can turn.

"Gabriel?"

Mohinder seems more confused than angry.

Sylar inhales deeply, steadying himself, and steps out from his shroud of trees, offering an embarrassed smile.

Mohinder moves forwards, irritation creeping onto his features.

"_Why_ are you following me? I can take a walk on my own!"

"I know you can."

Sylar strides closer, his eyes sparkling with renewed moisture.

"Then _why_?" Mohinder's tone displays that he wants answers, and he wants them now.

"I don't have a good reason."

"I see."

Mohinder turns his back and faces the pond again, his heartbeat erratic and livid.

Sylar moves to stand next to him.

"Besides that I'm selfish and I can't stop watching you."

The look Mohinder gives is one of pain.

"A man who devotes himself to another man's health and safety is hardly selfish, Gabriel."

Sylar feels like vomiting.

_You have no idea how __egotistical __I've been. How much I've hurt you._

"You don't know me, Mohinder. I don't deserve you," he states, barely more than a whisper.

"Don't say that. I may not remember everything about our life together but that doesn't mean I don't _want _to remember."

Mohinder reaches for Sylar's hand, entwining their fingers before pulling it up to his lips.

A tear rolls down his pallid cheek and Mohinder's expression turns to worry.

"Gabriel? What is it?"

"I'm going to give it all back," Sylar forces out through gritted teeth.

"Give what back?" Mohinder reaches to wipe the tear away with the pad of his thumb but Sylar catches his hand and squeezes it a little too hard.

"Everything. Your memories. Your life. _My _life. The life we should have had."

Mohinder shakes his head in perplexity.

"I don't think I understand."

"That doesn't matter anymore. I can do this. I can make it right and fix it. _I promise you I will_."

Sylar pulls the confused man into a rough kiss before rushing him back to their cabin.

* * *

"Why are you packing?" 

"Because we're leaving tomorrow."

"To go where?" Mohinder asks, handing Sylar one of his black sweaters.

"I'm taking you to New York City."

The look of pure elation on Mohinder's face for visiting such an oddly foreign place makes Sylar smile. An honest-to-God grin.

"And this has to do with you '_fixing_' things?"

Sylar's smirk fades and he nods. This moment is perfect; how he wants life with Mohinder to be.

He wonders if maybe he should rethink leaving. Maybe he could learn to handle the bad with the good.

Mohinder is on him then, kissing him timidly, taking the folded sweater from Sylar's hands and tossing it aside.

All thoughts trickle out of Sylar's mind as Mohinder eases him back onto the bed, taking full control.

Sylar is surprised at wanting to relinquish it.

But he does – he lies back willingly and for the first time in their 'relationship', Mohinder is the one stripping their clothing away.

Sylar mimics his actions, following his lead by peeling Mohinder's tee shirt off only after his own tank top is gone. An awkward tug at each other's pants and underwear follows, and the two men take a moment to stare at each other, panting into hot mouths.

He's suddenly very curious about this side of Mohinder.

Mohinder's naked body is pressed flush against his; pinning him down with his weight.

"Can I?" he breathes between kisses on the underside of Sylar's jaw.

Sylar takes control back for a moment – just a moment – grabbing Mohinder's face and kissing those supple lips.

"You don't need to ask."

Releasing his grip he allows Mohinder to crash their mouths together.

_Allows_, because at any second he could snatch the control away, and both men know it.

Mohinder slithers backwards down his chest, leaving a trail of wet kisses.

Sylar lifts his head off the pillow to watch the mop of black curls stop at his abdomen.

He feels a wet tongue sliding over his flesh; tracing patters down to his groin that make muscles twitch in anticipation.

_So good_, because Mohinder is giving it to him, and Mohinder _wants _it to be good.

Trembling fingers ghost over his half-hard erection and Sylar lets a tiny grunt escape his lips. The strain on his neck is growing but he can't break his eyes away from the work Mohinder is doing.

Mohinder glances up to meet his gaze, fingers stroking up and down, eyes sparking with lust as he lays a kiss on the tip of Sylar's cock.

"Mo-"

"Shhh."

The breath is hot and warm and flows over his groin like lava. Sylar's hips buck slightly and Mohinder takes the hint, sliding his lips tight and slow over the head.

Sylar can't hold his skull up anymore as Mohinder devours him to the base, a deep, vibrating moan erupting around his erection, stiffening him into full hardness.

He groans in response, fingers drifting on their own to card gently through Mohinder's hair; to feel the steady bob of that head with his fingertips like the sensation on his sensitive skin isn't enough.

Mohinder's own hands brush lightly up and down Sylar's thighs, nails scraping, and Sylar curls into himself when Mohinder pauses with a full mouth to swallow around him.

Electricity is sparking behind his eyelids with every jolting grunt Mohinder voices and he's so close; muscles trembling and burning with the strain to hold in his release. Biting into his lip hard enough to taste blood, Sylar screws his eyes shut.

He tugs lightly on the curls sifting through his fingers, desperate to tell Mohinder to pull away before-

"Mmmmm."

It's the final moan of a tight, hot mouth around him that causes Sylar to jerk upwards and spill against the back of Mohinder's throat. He lifts his head to watch his lover swallow and wipe his lips before shifting down.

Mohinder entwines a leg between Sylar's own, laying half against him and stroking the patch of hair on his chest.

Sylar is still panting as the waves of pleasure break and fade and he feels suddenly very needy, curling a hand around Mohinder's waist to pull him in for closer contact.

He feels sated – emotionally, physically – he's more tired than he's been in a long time. But it's a good tired and as he nuzzles into Mohinder's throat, ready to sleep, something catches him off guard.

Mohinder's lips press against his ear for a kiss, then a breathy whisper.

"I know you did something to me._ Something terrible."_

Sylar's eyes fly open and he stills. Is Mohinder about to ruin everything?

Fingers are stroking through his hair lovingly, and Sylar is confused by the mixed signals.

"What?"

He hears Mohinder swallow, his heart slow. Whatever Mohinder knows, he isn't angry. Not nearly as angry as he should be.

"_I know_. And I just want you to fix it. Fix it so we can be together."

All Sylar can do is nod against Mohinder's throat before pressing his lips to the warm, pulsing flesh.

Mohinder trusts him to, and he will.

* * *

Whew! I'm predicting….2 more chapters. 3 tops. 

Thanks again to my loyal readers!!!


	6. Chapter 6

Sylar glances up to watch Mohinder as the over-stimulated man wanders down the bare convenience store aisle, running his fingers over American-brand candies like he's never seen them before. Because to Mohinder, he hasn't.

"You can get anything you want," he says, flipping through the borrowed phonebook at the counter while the attendant watches a soap opera.

"Oh I don't need anything I'm just excited to be in some sort of civilization and out of that sodded cabin - do I like these?" Mohinder questions, snatching a bag of skittles off the rack and holding it up. Sylar grins and quirks a bushy brow at the adorable look of concerned curiosity on Mohinder's face.

"Well to be honest I don't know but here, we'll get them and find out." He motions and Mohinder walks it over, setting the candy down on the counter. "Go grab a drink too while I find this."

"Alright."

Sylar watches Mohinder closely as the man wanders over to the drink section a few feet away, feeling a disturbing amount of protective instinct over the man. He isn't sure if it has to do with Mohinder's heightened vulnerability, or if it's the deep seeded connection he's formed with his memory-less lover the past couple of weeks. Either way, he's sure that this isn't going to end well for either of them. There's no coming back from what he's done and Sylar doesn't think he'll have the gull to fight back when the old Mohinder starts attacking him for his crimes.

Sylar turns his attention back to the phone book and continues flipping through the annoyingly loud pages. Parker, Patley, Patron, Peck, Pennly, Peshin, Petra…Petrelli. His index finger drags slowly down the list of names, landing on what looks to be an unfamiliar address for Peter Petrelli in the city.

He tucks the information neatly away in the folds of his brain with eidetic memory and snaps the phonebook closed just as Mohinder walks up, setting two ice-cold raspberry teas and a blueberry muffin on the counter.

"Hungry?"

"Not for me, you didn't eat breakfast and I worry."

"How sweet," he comments with a small smile, kissing Mohinder on the cheek and letting his lips linger for a moment longer than they should. He's going to miss this more than anything; there's already a dull ache growing in his chest for what he hasn't yet lost.

Sylar pulls his wallet out of his back pocket and taps the counter to get the attendant's attention, placing seven dollars near the register after quickly doing the math. He grabs their treats and lets Mohinder head out first, telling the man to 'Keep the change' in a tone that forebodes _I won't need it anymore. __  
_  
Once back in the car with their spoils all sorted out amongst themselves he revs the engine in such a way that causes Mohinder to ask with an amused look,

"Are we going into battle, Gabriel?"

"Something like that."

*

Peter lives in a rather small apartment building, much to Sylar's surprise. He would have expected a Petrelli spawn to have massive space and the comfort any rich snob could desire. Though Peter has never been very much like the rest of his family, Sylar has come to realize, and for that he has faith that he won't be turned away. Playing off of the empath's emotions is a tactic far too easy, tried and true, but Sylar is desperate.

He walks hand-in-hand with Mohinder up the building's stairwell, their fingers laced tightly together, and Sylar has no intention of letting go until his lover is the one who shoves him away.

"I do like these," Mohinder comments idly, looking into the half-eaten bag of skittles. "They sort of melt on my tongue."

"Yeah they're good."

"Are you alright?"

"Just…excited to see an old friend."

He puts on a smile for Mohinder and opens the door to the third level of the building, following his companion through it, down the hall.

"What number?"

"Thirty-six."

"And his name is Peter you said?"

"Yes…don't be alarmed, he may act…strange."

"Strange? How so?" Mohinder asks, stopping in front of the proper door. "He's not going to hurt me, is he?"

"No. No I wouldn't let him do that."

"But he'll fix this…fix what you did?"

"I hope so Mohinder."

If not, Sylar isn't exactly sure what he'll do. There will be a battle, he knows, a struggle to keep Mohinder as Peter will surely do anything and everything in his power to protect an old friend.

"And what if he isn't home?"

"Then we wait."

Sylar keeps a tight hold on the hand in his own and raises a clenched fist, knocking loudly on the maroon colored door. He turns his attention sideways to watch Mohinder tilt his head back and dump a few skittles from the bag into his opened mouth, blissfully unaware of the damaging change about to take place between them. And for a fleeting second every muscle in his body tenses with the urge to turn and walk away - to keep the shell of a man he once knew and fall back into the frustrating motions of having Mohinder unaware that his memories are being muddled.

Both of their attentions flick to the door when a scraping noise sounds, indicating locks being undone. It opens, Peter nonchalantly pushing his long bang out of his eyes before he realizes who is standing before him.

"Oh shit!" he proclaims, stumbling back a few steps and angling his body sideways, one hand in front of him at the ready. His eyes ping-pong between the two men in the hall; one of his nightmares standing silently stoic and one of his daydreams chewing happily on skittles. Finally, his gaze slides down to their tightly clasped hands and then up to Mohinder's face questioningly.

"Are you alright?" Mohinder asks, brow quirked in confusion at the strangers reaction.

"Mohinder what the hell?!"

"Calm down Petrelli, I'm not here to fight. I need your help." Sylar takes a small, non-threatening step into Peter's apartment and the empath matches it, moving backwards.

"You stay away from me - Mohinder come here!"

"What? Gabriel what's wrong with him?"

"Gabriel? No, no this man is Sylar - what'd you do to him??"

"That's what I need your help with damn it now calm down or you'll scare him!"

"_What did you do_?!" Peter roars, throwing his hand sideways and sending Sylar flying through the air. Mohinder stumbles in his direction, having been yanked with the force of it all, and gasps sharply.

"What was that?!" he yells in complete shock, breathing heavily and trying to discern how his lover just _flew_ across the room. "Gabriel??"

Despite everything inside of him screaming to get up, to throw Petrelli around the apartment until he listens, Sylar knows he needs to stay down and admit defeat before this gets out of hand. So he does, watching with deflated pride as Peter rushes towards Mohinder and catches him just before the fainting man hits the apartment floor.

"Happy now Petrelli?"

Not a moment after Peter lays Mohinder down softly on his bed in the other room is he running back at Sylar with full force.

*

"F-fuck…stop…" Sylar gurgles pathetically, on all fours with a constant stream of blood flowing from his mouth to the hardwood floor. He winces heavily when Peter's boot connects with his ribs for what feels like the hundredth time, coughing more blood onto the floor.

"Fight back damn it!"

"No." He clenches his teeth and takes the nonstop barrage that started the moment he told Peter about removing Mohinder's memories. "I just…want your help."

"You don't deserve help after what you've done!"

The empath growls and telekinetically flicks Sylar up to the ceiling, then lets gravity tug him back down to the floor where he hits like a bag of rocks.

"Oof!" Groaning deeply and rolling over onto his back, Sylar wishes now more than ever he'd killed that fucking cheerleader a while ago.

"Stop!" they both hear Mohinder yell from the doorway of the bedroom. Peter looks back and points at him with a stern fire in his eyes.

"Stay in there!"

"No…" Mohinder hesitates before walking over to Sylar and kneeling down, brushing blood off of his face with gentle care. "Gods, why are you doing this to him??"

"Mohinder you don't know the half of what he's done to _you_!"

"So tell me damn it I thought we were coming here to get help! To fix what he did!"

"You're better off not knowing right now just go back into the bedroom so I can take care of him."

"No." Mohinder stands slowly, looking this somewhat familiar stranger in the eye. "I don't know who you are or who you _think_ I am but I love this man. I want you to fix this right now so that we can all three figure it out."

Peter wants to slap Mohinder, wants to grab him by his shoulders and shake him but he knows the only way to get Mohinder to see what's going on is to do what he says.

"Okay…alright…fine. Sit down on the couch." He guides Mohinder to his leather loveseat, stepping carelessly over Sylar who, despite his defeated and bloody position on the ground, is watching the empath closely.

"Gabriel?" Mohinder says, looking for affirmation as he slowly sits down.

"Its okay Mohinder. Let him." Sylar coughs and very slowly rolls over onto his side to try and sit up, settling for resting his weight on a forearm with his free hand holding a bruised and sore stomach. "He's your friend. Trust him."

Mohinder sighs out shakily and rubs his hands together, nervous and unprepared for such a whirlwind of events. But he smiles lightly and nods to Sylar, saying with confidence,

"I love you Gabriel."

Peter whips his head towards the broken and bleeding man, glaring at him for using this ability to twist and pull Mohinder's mind so harshly that he actually believes he loves the killer. Or is that look in the empath's eye stemming from jealousy and the blunt reality that Mohinder could have, under other circumstances, fallen in love with him?

"I love you too."

"Close your eyes," Peter says, bringing his attention back to Mohinder and softening his features a little. "Just relax."

Mohinder nods and obeys, resting his head back on the couch and letting out another deep breath. He feels a warm, soft hand mould over his forehead and knits his brow, about to ask what Peter is going to do when a stabbing sharp pain shoots through his skull and he cries out in surprise.

"Agh!"

*

"Mohinder?"

He feels something icy cold on his head and moans softly, trying to push it off.

"No Mohinder its okay. Its Gabriel."

"And Peter. I'm here too."

"Ugh…what…"

"Open your eyes."

Mohinder tries again to push the icy object away and this time succeeds, Sylar removing his kryokinetically frozen hand.

"Open your eyes and sit up," he hears again, this time being nudged forwards by a gentle force.

"Peter?"

"Yeah," the empath replies, smiling softly. "I'm here."

Frowning, Sylar moves back and sits on the coffee table, waiting for what is sure to be an emotional assault as soon as Mohinder can clear his mind. And the moment he does, Sylar flinches.

Mohinder gasps sharply and opens his eyes wide, remembering everything; including what has happened the past couple of weeks. A nonstop barrage of emotions courses through his body from anger to embarrassment and utter grief as he turns his eyes to the man sitting off-center in front of him.

"You." He attempts to stand up, immediately falling back to the couch with dizziness, Peter's hand on his arm.

"Take it easy."

"You son of a bitch!"

Sylar keeps his eyes on the floor for a long moment and then says cautiously,

"Before you say anything…do anything…I just want you to know that I've seen something in us. Something I want. I'm sorry I hurt you and I can't take back what I did but…I'd give anything to have what we had ten minutes ago."

When he looks up into Mohinder's fury-drenched stare, he knows what he just said doesn't mean anything. He barely registers the sharp slap across his cheek and blinks harshly at the wall, head now turned to the side.

"You selfish, egotistical bastard, why does everything have to be about power with you?! Did you ever stop to think that if you'd tried like a normal human being this could have happened on its own??"

"I'm not normal!" he yells back, unable to stop himself.

"Oh right how could I forget? Sylar, the special man that everyone will eventually bow down to or suffer the godly consequences."

"That's not what I meant."

"Then enlighten me!"

"I don't feel things the way others do! The way Peter does, or you for that matter! I can't fucking…fucking let my guard down and smile at puppies or help an old woman cross the street!"

"Why the hell not?!"

"Because he's emotionally weak and feels the need to overcompensate with abilities," Peter chimes in. Sylar rolls his eyes at the double-teaming and wipes some blood off of his lips angrily.

"Screw you Petrelli you can't control your powers worth shit."

"I did a pretty damn good job kicking your ass and fixing Mohinder just now!"

"Pure luck!"

"Luck what the hell do you mean luck?! Can't you just accept that someone is more powerful than you and get over yourself?!"

"This coming from the guy that nearly blew up New York City because he didn't know when to ask me for help!"

"Help - you wanted me to blow up!"

"_I was going to stop you_!"

"_ENOUGH_!" Mohinder yells, visibly shaking with his hands over his face. The bickering demi-Gods let out huffing breaths and turn to Mohinder, Peter setting a hand on his friend's back.

"Mohinder maybe you should go lay dow-"

"-Shut up," he snaps at Peter and the empath, looking taken aback, does so. In a slow, fluid movement Mohinder stands up from the couch gazing down at Sylar sadly. "I could have loved you. I would have loved you, if you'd just used your heart for once. Even after you murdered Brian Davis you could have sought out help and I would have been there. You wouldn't be such a feared, horrible man today. Gabriel Gray might have been something great, he might not have, but you? You're a monster. And if you continue down this path nobody will be able to save you or love you or give you what you _think _you need. Certainly not me."

Sylar watches with heart-clenching sorrow as Mohinder steps around the coffee table and walks rather calmly to Peter's bedroom with a tremble to his hands. After the door clicks softly shut Peter and Sylar both hang their heads at the amplified sound of Mohinder breaking down and crying.

"Good job," Peter quips. "I hope you're proud of yourself for ruining his life yet again."

"Peter will you shut up and listen to me for once?"

"Why should I?"

"Because coming here and having you fix him wasn't the last part of my plan."

"If you're planning on killing me right now then I should warn you that-"

"-No…no I have no desire to kill you so just be quiet."

"Fine. You have thirty seconds to talk and then I'm going to finish kicking your ass."

Sylar's tongue darts out of his mouth to swipe across his bloody lip and he cringes inwardly at the sharp, iron taste.

"I want you to do something for me and if…if he doesn't care after its done then I'll leave. I won't come back."

"…I'm listening."

*

Mohinder rubs his arms softly up and down, hugging himself on the edge of Peter's bed, sniffling. He can hear the dull murmur of voices coming from the other room and he is starting to wonder why Sylar hasn't left yet. Forgiveness is out the window and it hurts him more than he thinks Sylar will ever know that this was the last abusing straw.

He wipes his nose roughly and then grips the edge of the bed with both hands, hanging his head in shame for wanting _so badly_ what they had in the past couple of days.

Mohinder flinches when a soft knocking sound rings through the room and he's on his feet in an instant, thinking Peter is coming to see if he's alright.

"Just a moment," he says, wiping his face with the sleeve of his jacket and walking over to the door. When he opens it Mohinder can't help but sigh in frustration at the man towering over him. "You…what do you want? I'm tired."

Sylar purses his lips, eyes wide, and extends a hand; the action causing Mohinder to take a small step back.

"My name is Gabriel Gray. The man over there…Peter…said I blacked out and fell down some stairs. I guess I've been doing it a lot lately, that's why I'm all bloody. Anyways the blackouts probably have to do with…well I can do something special…and I've read your father's book. You're Mohinder Suresh right? Sorry, my minds all fuzzy and confused." When Mohinder doesn't move or speak, he continues to babble like a nervous wreck. "The photo of you and Chandra in the book doesn't do you justice." Gabriel blinks harshly and his cheeks flush bright pink. He drops his hand when he realizes that clearly this man isn't going to take it. "I'm sorry, were you sleeping or something?"

"No…no…its…nice to meet you? Hold on a moment." Mohinder edges past the man and walks briskly to Peter who is busy cleaning blood off his floor before Gabriel can see it. "What the hell is going on?"

The bloody paper towels float over to the kitchen trash and Peter stands, glancing past Mohinder to make sure Gabriel isn't listening.

"He asked me to take his memories."

"He'll get them back eventually! Are you going to remove them every time he does?"

"No. Hell no. He said he…wanted to make it up to you by knowing what its like and he wanted to give you the chance you were talking about."

"Chance?"

"Yeah of getting to know each other when he's just Gabriel Gray. Personally I think we should just send him on his way, after everything he did why should he get a second chance?"

Mohinder worries his lip and glances to the man who is picking at his black jacket and black jeans, presumably trying to figure out where his sweater vest and khaki pants went.

"Everyone deserves a second chance Peter," he says quietly, looking back to his friend.

"Even a killer?"

"I suppose so. I mean I saw a different side of him…and I fell in love with that side."

"And when his memories come back?"

"He'll feel what I felt and we'll go from there."

"That simple huh?" Peter curls his nose, watching as Gabriel sifts through his wallet with curiosity.

"Its not simple at all."

"And he's worth it…I don't get it."

"Me neither. Thank you for your help Peter but if you'll excuse me…" Mohinder chews the inside of his cheek and walks back to Gabriel, extending a hand. "Its nice to meet you, Mister Gray."

Shaking his hand firmly with a small smile, Gabriel nods.

"You as well. Do you think you can help me?"

"Certainly. Lets get you cleaned up and then we'll talk about just how special you are."


End file.
